


Rebound

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>spoilers for MTMTE 16, allegedly for the tf-rare-pairing prompt Perceptor/Ratchet 'why'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebound

“You let him go.” Perceptor’s voice was flat and raw, only his hands, balling into tense fists, betraying his emotion, as soon as the door to Ratchet’s private office had closed, like a snare being triggered.  “You let him leave.”

“Perceptor.”  Ratchet sighed. He wasn’t ready for this—he wasn’t ready to deal with the whole thing himself, much less deal with an emotional mech on top  of that. It was one of those moments—all too frequently, of late—that a medic ran into, where he himself was cut, shaken to the core, but he had to push that aside for someone else’s greater need. “What, exactly, do you think I could have done?”

It was a reasonably unreasonable question.

The scientist’s mouth pressed to a thin line. “Talk some sense into him. Or Rodimus.”

A bitter laugh, one that had the echo of ages.  “You can’t talk Drift into anything,” he said. Statement of fact, and Perceptor knew it.  Primus knows Ratchet had tried, even back in Rodion, but Drift had a stubbornness, quiet and feral.  “As for Rodimus, what could he really do? Drift _confessed_.” There was no way Rodimus could just ignore that, after what had happened.  Too many dead, too many injured.  And Drift stepping up to take the blame.

“He could have just…demoted him,” Perceptor said, but even his tone was thin, disbelieving, a last finger hanging onto hope.

“How would that have been for Drift,” Ratchet said, sternly. “You saw how they treated him.”  He tried to settle himself on his seat, though he felt a restless upset prickling through him, unsettled, discontent.

And Ratchet could see the sting of that on Perceptor’s face.  And he’d thought the same thing, in a wild moment, one that wanted to keep all the reckless idiots safe where he could keep an optic on them. 

A moment of frustration, Perceptor chewing on air. “It doesn’t make sense,” he blurted, finally, yielding but still fighting, like a rearguard action. “He couldn’t do it on his own. He couldn’t make a Phase Sixer on his own.  He’s…he doesn’t have the background.”

That had bothered Ratchet, too. Something stank about the whole story, but when he’d confronted Drift, lifting him up where he’d fallen, he’d seen a desperate pain in the blue optics, begging him not to ask, not to make Drift lie to his face. 

And that had told Ratchet a lot.  He must have told Rodimus something, after all. 

“Maybe,” Ratchet said , “he had a plan. Someone to meet somewhere, Gorlam Prime or Varas Centralus or…”

“Or maybe he had help, here.”

“Not you.”

Another flinch of pain, as though whipstruck. “I’d never have let…I’d have left with him.”  There was a world of loyalty in the chasm between the phrases, and Perceptor leaned against the bulkhead, as though seeking strength from its solid mass. It had endured all of this, and more.

“Protecting you, then.”  It sounded like Drift: reckless and strangely noble.

“And others,” Perceptor said.

“Look.”

“Ratchet,” Perceptor pushed off the wall, as though bracing himself for a torrent of words. “He took the blame.  And I’m not saying he’s not blameless.  But there’s simply no way—no way—he could have done it all himself. I know you think I’m blinded by…by our past, but—“

“I don’t.” Perceptor seemed to deflate, surprised and relieved at once, at Ratchet’s interruption. “But Perceptor. He made a choice. Without you. Or me.  By himself. He has a right to do that.”  And it hurt to say. But if Ratchet had his way, every reckless warrior would be confined, nagged to within an inch of their lives. Autobots fought for freedom, and sometimes, as much as it hurt, that meant the freedom for someone to make a decision you think is stupid or wrong.    And he knew Perceptor knew that, too. “He’s a survivor, though.  If he stood up for someone else, protecting someone else, that means he’s strong enough to take it.”

Ratchet hoped.

Perceptor’s hands clenched helplessly, knowing no trigger could fix this, nothing in his lab could give him an answer he could live with.  “….I’m not sure I am, though.”

“Absurd,” Ratchet said, sharply.  “Of course you are.” He meant it to be bracing, abrasive, to strike some sense into Perceptor. They’d already lost Drift. And Ultra Magnus.  And Red Alert.  Too many, gone, and Ratchet couldn’t stand to lose one more.  He felt his own fragility behind the words, and the sudden sharpness in Perceptor’s reticle told him that the other mech saw it, too.

“It’s just,” Perceptor said, offering the intimacy, “I thought we had time, without the war. But peace. It’s been harder than the war.” He studied his hands, suddenly, idly rubbing one thumb over a scrape in the black enamel.

What else could Ratchet do but nod?  Every loss since he’d joined the ship had hurt worse than those in the war. Because he’d thought it was over, too, and they seemed to fall into darkness before peace could even dawn.

Ratchet scowled at the thought: he was starting to sound like Drift, optimistic and florid.  He shook it off. He was a clinician, after all, and whether or not Perceptor knew it, he was here for help. Perceptor needed a purpose, something to throw himself into, a lifeline to stop him from this floundering.

“You think he’s protecting someone? Find out who it is, and why.” Ratchet stood, then, pushing his fading strength through his own legs, moving a hand to Perceptor’s shoulder, half expecting it to be flinched off.

“I have…a theory.” He didn’t move, didn’t swipe the hand away.

Ratchet shook his head. “No theory. Facts. Evidence. Something Rodimus would have to listen to. Not—“

“Not the suspicions of a spurned lover,” Perceptor said, “I understand.”

Ratchet could see the shift, subtle but certain, in Perceptor’s frame, as though he stood up just a little straighter, optics just a little clearer.  And he wished he could do more than just the hand on the shoulder, than pushing Perceptor back into action. He'd been doing that for so long it felt like reflex--patch them up, send them back to danger.  Was he sending Perceptor back into his past, feeding him with pablum-thin hope? Or was he giving him a galvanizing purpose, that would bring truth and trust and honor not only to himself, but to Drift, to the rest of them?  Was he making Perceptor a victim or a hero? He didn't know anymore. And maybe it wasn't his place to know, maybe it was just enough to do something, to be some sort of platform against which the hard edges of injury could rebound. 

"Ratchet."  Perceptor waited, until he caught the medic's gaze.  "I'm sorry. For before. For accusing--"

"It's all right," Ratchet shrugged. Pain wanted to cause pain. "Really."

"No, it isn't.  Because you helped him, which was more than I could do." A smile that was half a wince, edged and rueful. 

"He's an old friend," Ratchet said. Maybe an overstatement, but right now, Drift needed friends.  

"I hope--I hope I can be a friend, one day." The words were honest and raw, and Ratchet had a glimpse into Perceptor, under the stoic mask he had adopted since Turmoil's ship. 

And Ratchet was fine around gaping wounds, the most horrific injuries, but this...he was no good at.  "Frag, I hope you're easier to deal with than Drift. Not sure my spark could take it." 

Perceptor's brows knitted, startled, for a klik, before he realized it for what it was: a deflection, a skin over a raw wound. "I make," he said, offering a tentative smile, "no promises." 


End file.
